Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - An Oasis in the desert
London, England. February 25, 2011
John Watson had spent another restless night in which his most recurrent nightmares had incurred from the depths of his dreams; he had had nightmares every night since his return to London from the arid lands of the Middle East. It was another night when John Watson had managed to sleep until very late at night after long hours of wakefulness turning in bed, thinking about each of the things that devastated him. Thinking about how alone now he was among those four walls of his small and modest bedroom.
A few weeks ago, he had been staying at an inn in London but because the pay received by his army pension was not enough, he had to think about renting a modest little room and move there. Anyway he was now alone. And the house that he had purchased with his partner a year ago was too big for him.
For now, Watson did not want to keep remembering that person he had loved so much and who had made him so happy over the last year. The rigidity with which he had been instituted made him repress all those kinds of feelings, in his ideology the idea of suppressing something that no longer had a remedy seemed to be better, something that he no longer had to reverse. Porter was dead and shed a single tear for that would not revive him. The best thing was to follow the course of his life and what it provided him with the passing of the days, the months and the years.
However, even though he himself didn't want to, he couldn't help feeling terribly devastated, sometimes even if he didn't want to, he just couldn't help crying. After all, and despite the strict military training that he had had, he was still a human, a human that he loved a lot, because despite everything he would always continue to love Porter intensely.
Sergeant John Porter, had the same name as him, John. Him, John Watson. They were the exact same age, only a mere 17 days apart, and both had been valuable British who had served their nation in the midst of warfare.
But Porter had died in the fulfillment of his mandate, with all the fortitude and tenacity of a sergeant of his size, in the distant and inhospitable lands of Pakistan, at the hands of dangerous terrorists. Sadly, Watson hadn't even been able to attend a funeral to say farewell to him one last time.
Only a few months had passed since that time, and as the days went by, contrary to recovering, John Watson felt more and more dejected and the pain from his injured leg made his situation much worse.
Almost immediately after settling into his new home, Watson decided to consult with a psychologist-therapist as some of his acquaintances had previously suggested. Surely if he didn't manage to alleviate his depression a bit, he could at least distract himself a little, forget, that was what he mainly wanted. However, Watson was not overly optimistic.
He walked awkwardly with the help of his cane until he reached the place where the therapist was. This would be his first session and it was really difficult for him, because he could not even express himself how he really felt about all this, before being alone, after being injured and especially after having lost so brutally and unexpectedly the love of his life in such a cruel and selfish way.
After a good while of mentioning the most external aspects about himself and beginning to know the dynamics that a session took, the therapist suggested that he should begin by writing in a personal blog about his concerns, because doing that could help him vent little by little of their sorrows. Up to that point Watson had been quite sullen and elusive, had completely omitted his life at Porter's side and had even omitted his sexual preference. All the therapists in the world could go to hell after all, neither they nor anyone else could know, much less understand how he felt. Going to therapy would turn out to be merely routine for him at least until he got a little used to living a civil life in England again, and trying to be more or less normal.
In the evening when Watson returned home to eat a simply dinner that he had prepared for himself without much eagerness, he reflected a great deal on the fact that his pride as a military doctor and his own pride had been the real factor why he had omitted talk to the therapist about Porter.
He thought then that if he was going to continue doing it for the duration of the therapy and then he decided that indeed that would be the best. He decided that if he was going to erase Porter from his thoughts and his memory then he must erase him from his conversations as well. He thought hard that he would never date another man again. Maybe he could try women later, maybe, even if he never liked them.
Porter's death was really hurting him too much.
He definitely needed a new life.
……
FLASH BACK ON
London, May 3, 2010
Seven years ago, Sergeant John Porter had been removed from the Special Air Service after a fateful incident in Iraq, beginning in 2003. Those times full of gunpowder and violence had ended indefinitely and he had believed that he would never get involved with foreign terrorists again until his old partner Hugh Collinson, in charge of MI6 Section 20 of the British Secret Intelligence Service, had called him in the first week of March 2010, just two months ago, to "reactivate" him and entrust him with an important new but dangerous mission in Iraq, the same place where three of his companions had been shot in 2003, resulting in two dead and one in a vegetable state. Despite being off-duty for 7 years, Porter had never stopped training on his own and thus his abilities remained intact. The dangerous mission to rescue journalist Katie Dartmouth from the same dangerous terrorists who had killed his companions in 2003 was satisfactory carried out. Porter was undoubtedly still one of the most prominent soldiers in the SAS, and he was ready for more.
It was a mild afternoon on the streets of London. The veteran John Porter was walking back to his flat after an ordinary day, in some modest part of town. It had been a normal day, nothing relevant had happened since he had returned to his native country after the success of his outstanding mission in Zimbabwe a month earlier, in early April. Fortunately for him, he had been able to take a few days off since then, although right now he could not stop thinking about the recent and unexpected death of his ex-wife and especially about the contempt of his stubborn daughter who continued to believe that he was the cause of the death of his companions seven years ago.
After successfully completing his most recent missions in Iraq and Zimbabwe, and after recovering from the injuries that the last mission had caused him, Porter was called again from the MI6 secret service agency by Collinson in order to assign him a new important mission, now in Afghanistan.
"Someone has hacked the ground encryption codes" said Collinson "If the Taliban are able to access our systems and redirect our missiles it would be very serious. We need answers and solutions as quickly as possible. Perhaps we have a new type of terrorist class. We have to stop it soon" he explained.
"Gerald Baxter in Iraq 2003 was technical-support contractor, civilian, not military. A missile guidance software engineer. But he screwed up. He was responsible for the accidental bombing of a village where women and children died. Baxter was found psychologically unfit for active service in conflict zones. He returned to Britain where he was diagnosed and hospitalized for post-traumatic stress disorder. We think that he may now be in Afghanistan. All records of Gerald Baxter stop at September 2005. There’s no trance of him after that date" said Lt. Thompson.
"Okay John, your mission is to locate and extract Gerald Baxter" Collinson pointed out as he gave Porter a folder with information about his false identity and with more instructions on how he would carry out his mission.
"So, I go in as an arms dealer? then I want a translator and a fixer with connections to the Taliban" said Porter decided.
That was a tough night for Porter because he had to learn all about missile launch software commands. It was not an easy task because he really did not know much about the subject, he was not an engineer like that Baxter, but he was a tenacious and determined military experienced and that helped him to memorize everything about that type of weapons in just a few hours. In addition, Officer Danni Prendiville, with whom Porter had started something of an affair since his "reactivation", had helped him well in educating himself.
After several hours of flight making stopovers like any civilian in commercial planes from London to Paris, then from Paris to Dubai and finally from Dubai to Afghanistan, John Porter arrived in the city of Kabul where a helicopter was already waiting to take him finally to the southwest of Afghanistan, to Helmand province, where he had to undergo a thorough transfer to the infiltrated area. From then on, his journey would be incognito. After traveling a few kilometers by car, Porter arrived together with his guide and his designated translator to a kind of small bazaar, where the governor of the province who would buy the alleged weapons was hidden.
He introduced himself under the assumed name of Tom Wallace and then the negotiation began.
"So that’s 7.32 by .39 mil 7.32 FMJ ammunition with steel core" Porter explained, turning to his prospective buyer, who was looking at him with fixation and distrust. In addition to explaining the calibers, Porter indicated the price and the total number of units that he could offer them "c'mon, Ukrainian manufacture fully accredited EUCs" he insisted a little to make the potential sale.
But after the assistant of the governor told Porter that he was not interested in such weapons, Porter decided to speak about what his real ambush was.
"I have associates connected to Arafel Systems in Chandrigar. These associates can get access to the LTD code encryption software on the next generation of Brimstone laser-guided missiles. Yeah, a hacker’s paradise. These weapons are due to come online with ISAF forces within the next three months. Control them and you control the war.” Porter said.
After leaving the place without consummating the negotiation, Porter was intercepted by several men who covered his head with a sack and seized him into an off-road truck. They had kidnapped Porter.
After coming face to face with the aforementioned Gerald Baxter and having to escape from the Taliban group that had hidden ties to certain corrupt American officials, Porter learned what had really happened in that fateful incident in Iraq seven years ago. All this time he had lived a lie, it had always been Collinson's fault.
And without having imagined it before, Collinson had decided to reach him, and suddenly he and Porter were face to face, facing each other in that arid land of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, in tribal lands, finally facing the tragic mistakes of the past that had ended for turning everything into a heap of selfishness. Shortly before, Baxter had died, at the hands of the Taliban, despite all the times that Porter had managed to save his life during the journey through the desert.
A fierce fight broke out between Porter and Collinson inside that abandoned adobe dwelling in the middle of the desert. Until, after a group of Taliban surprised them, Collinson was seriously wounded and decided to explode a grenade with the last forces of his life, while Porter escaped unharmed in an off-road jeep.
But Frank Arlington and Zahir Sharq, leaders of the terrorist organization that had persecuted them, continued with the firm and austere purpose of finding and neutralizing Porter, wiping him off the map and out of their affairs. Their closest contacts had informed them that Porter was probably heading for Iran, so the intrepid sergeant would most likely divert his route to the other border.
Without stopping, Porter drove across the dirt road in the dirt road to reach Lashkar Gah, where he knew he could find help and shelter from his fellow British soldiers. But the desert is an inhospitable place and the fuel was not going to last long. When night came and being completely exhausted, he knew that he had to stop the vehicle to rest, even if it was only for a moment. He thought that since he had become a military man this was the first time that he was really alone in the vast desert. Besides, he sometimes couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by everything that had happened so suddenly, in too short a time, with the deaths of Steve, Baxter and Collinson. He sensed that it was also the first time that he could stop for a bit to admire the starry sky in the desert. He thought that it was something really beautiful in the midst of all that hostility.
Porter had to endure the cruel night cold of the desolate and inhospitable place. A little later in the night, he tried to sleep a bit, huddled inside the jeep, although he certainly could not get to sleep well because his mind demanded him to be always alert, those who were chasing him could surprise him at any time and then kill him without that he realized. Despite the fact that he had gotten quite far from it, and despite the fact that the place was immense, his pursuers must surely know the place much better than he did. The only thing left for him was to hope he had enough good luck.
Early in the morning just as the sun was beginning to rise behind the mountains, which were still a little distant, Porter awoke from his dream. It had been a good night's sleep despite everything, now he felt strong enough again to grind his way to the British camp at Lashkar Gah, but he knew there was still a long way to go.
He roused himself as soon as he could and realized that he too was very hungry. There had been so many such intense incidents that he could no longer even remember when it had been the last time, he had tasted food, but right now the lack of it was wreaking havoc on him. He certainly felt more weakened. Perhaps he too was dehydrating, in his canteen he discovered that he no longer had a drop of water left, but despite this, he maintained the strong determination that this should not prevent him from arriving. He had to draw strength from wherever he went to move on, he had to put aside his hunger and thirst for him. The road was still long, but not eternal and neither he was determined to let himself die that way in the desert after having endured everything, after having fought so tenaciously in that way.
The accounts were settled, Steven and Collinson had died, his target Baxter had died, but he still wanted to continue living a normal life in London and perhaps also give himself other opportunities to continue serving other missions for the military, something that he always looked forward to, what he always enjoyed the most, which motivated him enormously. After all, he had always been addicted to danger.
He soon started the Jeep as the cool morning weather quickly began to transform back into a customary scorching heat. As Porter drove the Jeep through the arid desert at times, he couldn't help but feel weak from lack of food, water, and sweltering heat, but his tenacity remained relentless and, fortunately, not long afterward, he could gradually see that the dunes were diminishing. The mountains were getting closer and closer to him, he wanted to think that this was something real and not a vague mirage. He had never experienced them, but he knew there could always be a first time for everything.
Even though the mountains were closer, he still had a long drive there, but he was already very grateful for his good luck. But above all, Porter was very grateful that until that moment he had not spotted a single terrorist, and much more because no one had spotted him yet. Everything was going very well, he just had to hold out a little longer. Unfortunately his mobile phone and his radar were now completely useless and although from section 20 in London they had been trying to reach him all attempts had been in vain. Probably until that point in MI6 they still did not know that Collinson was dead and that Porter was walking alone in the desert, with a dangerous band of terrorists in pursuit.
The special agency would soon send jets and a British special forces helicopter in search of its two soldiers on mission, although perhaps by that time, Porter would already be arriving at Lashkar Gah and would be safe at the British base.
Not long after, Porter realized that with only 30 kilometers to go to the site, he would soon be safe. But Zahir Sharq and his men were not giving up, they had certainly been in charge of his capture since the day before, and by that time they continued to pursue him arduously. The enormity of the desert had made their task a bit difficult, but at one point, just a short drive from reaching the limits of Lashkar Gah, the terrorists finally spotted Porter's jeep and unexpectedly surprised him by firing a burst of high-caliber shells toward he. As soon as the first shell hit his vehicle, Porter reacted as fast and bold as he always had done and quickly grabbed one of the machine guns and fired at the extremists without stopping to hesitate, while shielding himself leaning inside the Jeep. On the spot, and thanks to his outstanding ability, Porter managed to mortally wound several of them and decided to start the jeep with increased speed, but another burst of projectiles was suddenly fired at him and although Porter tried to take cover behind by shrinking inside the Jeep a bullet reached the left side of his torso. The immediate sensation he had from that bullet hitting him was one of intense heat that soon turned to pain. He soon realized that several splinters had also embedded themselves in his back and arms, that immediately felt like fire on his skin. But he was perfectly trained to put the pain aside, the most important thing was to continue accelerating the vehicle and protect his life to attack them again at any opportunity, eliminate his enemies as soon as possible. As he had always said himself, the guy with the best weapon and dexterity is the one who always wins. He must win.
Despite his injuries, Porter drove the Jeep faster, risking that what little fuel he had left would run out completely, and, not long after, and fortunately, Porter was finally able to reach a rocky area, where he had time to stop and hide. He thought at that moment that he had finally managed to make them lose track.
He stopped for a moment to sigh and complain a little about the pain caused by the wounds received, when he brought his hands to his wounds he realized that when he touched them, his fingers were completely soaked with blood, he was losing a lot. Fortunately, there were some cloths inside the Jeep that he managed to reach and he immediately made a couple of makeshift turnstiles. The pain was gradually increasing and he feared that the loss of blood might make him dizzy and faint at any moment, now being hurt like that put him at a huge disadvantage. The damned camp was close, but at the same time too far. Luckily the aridity of the desert was ending, the sand now seemed to be replaced by rocks of enormous size which helped him better hide from his enemies. Sure there were still enough of those bastards alive and surely they were hidden anywhere, stalking him even from behind and of course heavily armed, too many for a single man like him, but Porter never gave up, nor did all that horde of terrorists, stubborn with their extremist ideology, dangerously armed and above all unharmed, they could stop him. A brave and well trained proud Briton like him was not determined to die in the desert of Afghanistan, much less at the hands of those bastards.
He took the strength again to start the Jeep again, although this time it was undoubtedly more difficult, and he went back down the road. Perhaps he still had around 50 minutes to reach the area where he could find the British army camp in the city of Lashkar Gah.
Driving down the road he suddenly felt a tire of the Jeep go flat and this caused the speed of the Jeep to decrease considerably. At one point the tire had been rendered useless. At once Porter knew that this had been caused by a projectile impact. The Taliban were on his heels again, firing projectiles at him relentlessly.
"Shit! These damn imbeciles never end," he cursed as he hit the steering wheel of the vehicle with a transitory outburst, he was too upset, pissed off and terribly sore. But he didn't have time to stop for even a second to think about everything that was irritating him at the moment. He could only curse everything for an instant and he had to think quickly about how he would have to mislead the terrorists and get out of this dangerous situation.
Soon a barrage of projectiles was fired at him again, but he might have been clever enough to sneak out of the Jeep. He took a couple of semi-automatic long guns and even with the pain that afflicted him, he moved away from the Jeep and hid between some concave stones that resembled small caves. The damned Jeep was of no use to him now and he had to continue his way on foot, injured, weakened, dehydrated and full of rage towards those damned extremists. He didn't give a shit about all of them, they could all go to hell. Porter kept cursing everything. He kept losing blood.
As they lost sight of him, the projectiles stopped firing, but Zahir Sharq's men quickly approached the now abandoned and useless Jeep. The Jeep was completely full of holes caused by the burst of projectiles. They discovered that Porter was not there, Porter was hidden behind the rocks and when the men were careless Porter shot them determinedly and nonstop from his location, killing them all on the spot, without even giving them time to even notice that Porter had stalked them from on high and had outwitted them. A fleeting smile of sadistic satisfaction did not go unnoticed on Porter's face. He really was getting tired of all those stupid Zahir's dogs, and he certainly greatly enjoyed eliminating them.
Before leaving his hiding place, Porter cautiously noticed that there were no more of these men alive and especially near him, ready to shoot him with his heavy weapons. When he verified that it seemed that he had finished with all of them, Porter decided to finally leave his hiding place in order to continue the journey on foot. But just as he turned around, a flurry of shots was heard at him again. He felt like one of those bullets had reached through the skin of his left arm. Porter couldn't help screaming in pain at it, but deftly ducked to hide again despite the pain of the impact, which was already causing him to lose consciousness, but unknowingly, the ground where he was standing was loose and unstable and suddenly it came off under his feet. In an instant Porter felt himself fall down the ravine that ended in a narrow, empty stream. Porter did not know when he began to lose consciousness, perhaps his injuries and weakness caused him to faint before falling into the water. For a moment he thought that this could be his end, the damned extremists had won him, they would end by finishing him off to leave him dead and take him to Zahir's hands, it was the only thing that Porter could manage within his consciousness that was fading while his wounded body fell down the hollow. Those bastards had beaten him. But before his mind was completely clouded Porter thought he heard the noise of a pair of helicopters approaching. Then he didn't know anything else.
……
Lashkar Gah. British Army military base.
May 11, 2010
John Porter woke up little by little in the middle of a great commotion. His eyes slowly widened as they got a little used to the sunlight. He immediately tried to guess what had really happened to him and where the hell he might be now. His head was spinning, he felt terribly dizzy and weak, and his vision was still a bit blurry. He felt too weak and terribly in pain. At that time he had only seen the roof of the place, which seemed to be somewhat deteriorated. Then he noticed that the rest of the furniture was not very clear because a thin curtain placed around the bed where he lay prevented him from seeing them well. He noticed well that it was early in the morning, he could recognize the morning sun coming through the window. He put a hand to his head out of inertia and soon a stabbing pain hit his abdomen. He found that his arms and legs hurt a lot too. The pain prevented him from sitting up or even moving, his left arm could hardly even lift it. This had to be because of the bullet wounds that had hit him during the confrontation with the Taliban. He soon realized that he was inside a small but functional room and that this place must surely be a makeshift hospital. It was the British base. He smiled to himself as he was glad that he was safe and on the mend. Although he really couldn't remember how he had gotten out of it. He was somewhat incredulous at that.
"Oh, I see that you have finally woken up!" said suddenly an unfamiliar voice of a young man, an extremely pleasant voice, which for Porter had been inevitably sweet. The person entered the room and approached him. Porter still couldn't quite clear his vision, but from the sweet tone of his voice and the silhouette of that person he could tell that it was a young male nurse, or perhaps a doctor. The young doctor, not very tall and with very blond hair, carried a chart tablet in his hand and moved closer to Porter's bed with the intention of giving him a cursory check on his patient.
The young blond drew the curtain and using his stethoscope on Porter's chest he began to listen to his heartbeat. Porter was still terribly convalescent, but as soon as the blond approached to do such an examination, he could well see that his white coat had embroidered “Dr. Watson ”. With complete diligence Dr. Watson continued to examine him.
"You have been unconscious for a couple of days sir, it is necessary that to do this review to verify that everything is fine," said Dr. Watson formally as he removed the stethoscope from his ears and immediately made a note on a sheet of his file board.
"Oh, was I really unconscious for two days? Damn Taliban bastards,” Porter muttered, as he spoke he saw that his weakness was preventing him from even being able to articulate the words well. He had to go to great lengths to achieve it "well, I have to say, I'm very glad to be alive" Porter tried to express himself, with a short and still wry laugh.
Watson looked at him carefully for a few seconds and smiled briefly. Just by seeing Porter, still lying wounded in that bed, he could see that he was really an extremely tenacious, brave, determined, firm soldier and after admiring a little that he approached him again to briefly review the progress of healing his wounds. He lifted the bandages a little, first the one on the arm, to check that the wounds were healing well and at that moment, in that closeness, Porter could better see Watson's face. His vision was still a little blurry, but he could see that Watson was quite concentrated and attentive in his work, he assumed that he was a serious and demure man and also noticed that he was not too young a man, perhaps Watson was of an age not too far from his. Knowing that in a person of that age there could exist a face with such serenity and subtlety and a voice as harmonious as his, aroused in him a bit of inevitable curiosity.
"Your wounds appear to be healing quite well, Sergeant Porter," Watson said, continuing to inspect Porter's wounds.
"Thank you very much for taking care of me, Dr. Watson," Porter gasped and went out of his way to give him a candid smile, a sign of his complete appreciation. Watson looked at him and found himself face to face for the first time with his blue eyes gently protruding between all those scratches on his face, and smiled back at him.
"You are still very weak, Sergeant. You should not overexert yourself. Don't worry, you are now safe with us. You got 3 projectile wounds, and I must also tell you that in addition to the bullet wounds you received, you also suffered a fracture in your right tibia due to the fall towards the stream from which you were rescued, and delicate contusions, one of them in the head. In addition to a considerable number of scratches and burns, although superficial, caused mostly by splinters. Fortunately, the impacts of the projectiles, although they wounded you deeply, did not damage any vital organs. There was also a great dehydration and wasting, surely due to a great lack of food and prolonged exposure to the hostility of the desert. We have given you intravenous serum and of course we have taken care of all your wounds and injuries. You will have to stay in the cast on his leg for a few weeks, Porter. You really came here looking terrible, you lost a lot of blood, but the progress is going well. As soon as you recover a little more you will be forwarded to the UK, don't worry" Watson explained diligently and seriously. However, for Porter there was no getting away from the fact that the blond doctor never lost the harmonious features on his face. His features were delicate and that had drawn him immediately.
"Were you the one who took care of me and supplied me with all that, Dr. Watson?" Porter inquired in a difficult voice, but trying to sound sweet. Despite his inevitable weakness, the sergeant did not want to stop smiling at the pleasant doctor who had saved his life by curing him of his terrible condition.
"Haha well yeah, along with other colleagues," Watson muttered shyly.
"Anyway, I really appreciate it, Dr. Watson. You've saved my life,” Porter said, smiling even more, and tried to raise an arm in order to reach out to touch a bit of Dr. Watson's white coat.
"It is my duty to treat war-wounded, Mr. Porter," Watson said seriously, although he could hardly hide that receiving these thanks from someone who had been seriously injured was very pleased, especially in the case of a very handsome and brave sergeant like John Porter.
"I hope one day I'll be able to pay you, Dr. Watson," Porter said happily, not taking his eyes off Watson's kind face that was also staring at him at the foot of his bed.
"Well, I must inform the personnel that you have finally woken up, Sergeant Porter. I'll be back in a bit, okay? In the meantime, get some more rest," Dr. Watson said gently.
"Haha doctor, you don't know how I would love to enjoy eating something solid. I don't really remember when was the last time I had anything to eat. Right now, I just have the damn metallic taste of blood in my mouth," Porter expressed weak but enthusiastic, maybe Dr. Watson could ask for something solid to eat for him. Watson smiled at him in amusement.
"Well, Sergeant Porter, you're right. I will order immediately that they provide something to you to eat" Watson said trying to hide the giggle of him caused by the shyness.
"Could you bring it to me yourself, Dr. Watson? If it is not too much to ask..." Porter spoke trying to persuade him amicably since certainly, and although he could not explain it, Dr. Watson inspired him confidence, tranquility and above all encouragement.
"Mmm okay, I'll be back with it soon," Watson said smiling a little and then left the room. At that moment, Porter realized that within the same room there were another pair of injured patients reclining in their respective beds. For the moment all was quiet and safe, but he kept wondering what had happened to Zahir Sharq and his men. Surely those bastards were still tracking him.
By that time Zahir had already contacted Frank Arlington informing him that his mission to finish off Porter had failed, that the English sergeant was right now safe at the British base at Lashkar Gah and that they had to wait another moment to resume the ambush. British John Porter would not go away alive. The purpose of kill him was only postponed.
But Frank Arlington was furious.
………
John Porter fell back to sleep a little while he waited for Dr. Watson to return, due to boredom and also due to the fact that he was actually very weak. Almost an hour later, Dr. Watson returned to the room where the wounded sergeant was, this time with a tray in his hands, which contained a bowl of soup, a stew with some veal and dried fruit, and a glass with some fruit juice, although undoubtedly artificial.
"Here's your food, Sergeant Porter," said Dr. Watson, trying to sound encouraging, although he was only doing it for his patients, because really, even if he didn't confess it, he was already feeling a little fed up with being in that country and all that stuff war activity out there, which he had had to witness for a long time.
Porter was completely awake to see Dr. Watson approach him and was certainly glad to see him again. He was also very happy to finally get something to eat. The sergeant tried to get up, but the terrible pain in his body made him feel as if a thousand needles were digging into his skin as he tried to do so. It was hellish pain. Porter winced at this and Watson set the tray on the dresser for a moment.
"Don't try to move too much, Sergeant Porter, your injuries are delicate and it is best to keep your rigid position," Dr. Watson scolded him and tried to help him a little. Porter grinned in amusement.
"Ha, yeah, you're right Doctor, I must obey your orders, I'm sorry," Porter apologized and Watson helped him carefully lie back on the bed.
"For these cases, it's only enough to activate the bed so that it reclines upwards," Dr. Watson explained, and when he operated a button on the bed, it slowly tilted upward, leaving Porter in a suitable position without having to move. Watson picked up the tray again and placed it on Porter's lap.
"Thank you very much Dr. Watson, you are my savior." Porter chuckled a little. Then Dr. Watson took a spoon and with it took some of the soup from the bowl to feed to Porter. Porter felt like a little boy. The idea that the blond young doctor, who was undeniably nice, would feed him like this amused him immensely.
"Well, I'll help you to eat Mr. Porter," Dr. Watson said, holding out the spoon and Porter smiled playfully at him. Watson could hardly help but blush a little.
"Please Dr. Watson, stop calling me Mr. Porter, or Sergeant. My name's John, surely you already know that," Porter said with a seductive smile, innate in him, after tasting the first spoonful of soup, Watson was about to bring him the second.
"Yes, I know, we also have all your data, I know who you are...and...let me tell you that I have the utmost respect and admiration for you for facing all those Taliban so bravely," said the blond doctor with a sincere smile, but without losing never his serious tone, this time avoiding his gaze a little to hide his shyness.
"So...if you know my data know call me John, call me by my first name" asked Porter smiling again.
"Mmh...but sir...I"
"Haha, please," the sergeant insisted, again with some seduction.
"Haha, okay, I will, but only while we're alone. In the presence of others, I must always address you according to your position,"
Watson said with a smile, and gave a short sigh of agreement.
"And by the way Dr. Watson, I would also like to know what your first name is. You have not been friendly enough to tell me your name, if I have found out that you're Dr. Watson it has only been thanks to the name embroidered on your robe" Porter said trying to intimidate him mischievously. Watson turned to him and smiled at him again.
"It's true, I hadn't properly introduced myself to you, well my name is John, John Hamish Watson," he explained with a wide smile on his serene face and then he watched with amusement as Porter looked at him in amazement.
"So your name also is John! just like me, wow! This is very pleasant." ”Porter laughed at that, although not as much as he would have liked, because laughing made his chest ache terribly.
"You can call me Dr. Watson," said the blond with imposing feigned authority, although it wasn't really his intention, he was unconsciously teasing him flirtatiously.
"Errr...I think this situation will be fun for me," Porter said smiling.
"Now please finish your meal, Sergeant Porter, you don't want it to get cold," Watson said amused and extended the spoon to Porter's mouth again, he also liked to think that as attractive and tenacious man of war as Porter had the same name as him, although he already knew it before.
"Okay, John," Porter replied and tasted the spoonful of soup that Watson was giving him at the time.
FLASH BACK OFF
………
London, February 26, 2011
John Watson awoke suddenly agitated again from a heavy sleep pressing down on his chest. It was almost 4:00 am, so the digital clock perched above his desk marked it, and his agitated breathing would not diminish until a few minutes later. Once again he had been having all those recurring dreams that hurt his thoughts, all those events that he had had to see and experience during the war that he had had to witness, since that first time he had been sent to finish his medical training in the service of the British militia in the lands of India, long before he met John Porter in the desert of Afghanistan.
The damn dreams were getting more and more recurring. Before, since his last return to British lands, the only thing Watson had been dreaming was the occasional image of war dissipated in his subconscious, in dreams that appeared sporadically, until all those dreams began to increase in frequency with intervals of two or three days. But now he had those nightmares every night. He thought then that maybe his mind was bent on hiding his terrible pain of losing John Porter, hiding his mourning pain by covering it with all those nightmares. Maybe it was better for him to start meeting new people. Although he had never really been good at it.
He also did not have a good relationship with his family and did not want to have it. He already had too many conflicts with himself to have to bear the foolishness of his alcoholic sister and her love disappointments with other women, since she was a lesbian. And Watson was gay, something that he had always been very clear about, although he had also always tried to repress, until he had met John Porter and had finally decided to love and let himself be loved by another man, just a few months ago. But now, Porter was dead.
Watson had started his blog just a day before, but he still hadn't written a single word. Later that day, he took his laptop out of the drawer and turned it on in order to begin by writing a first initial note. As soon as he entered the blog he hesitantly stopped before starting to type something, he really had no interest or desire to write anything. While he was thinking about what to write to start with, for a moment he returned to his mind the memory of Porter and he thought that perhaps it would be good to write a little about what they both had lived together.
“I met him in the arid Afghan lands, less than a year ago, in May 2010. We were suddenly informed by staff in my section that day that a report had come from MI6 in London, calling for urgent help for Sergeant John Porter and his companion, Commanding General Hugh Collinson, on a dangerous mission at the time. According to the report, Porter and his companion were on the run from a dangerous group of Taliban terrorists who had been infiltrating missile control systems. But it turned out that Sergeant John Porter had been the sole survivor of that mission and he was now lost in the desert with a probable course towards our camp in Lashka Gah, pursued by the same group. A couple of helicopters were immediately dispatched to search for him and after an exhaustive search they finally found his whereabouts. They had seen him fall down a ravine into a stream, probably seriously wounded by a gunshot. The dead bodies of several Taliban extremists were also found at the scene. The personnel in charge of helping him pulled him out of the water and hurriedly led him to our medical base. Until that moment I had only seen him in the photograph that they had shown us in his file, but as soon as he arrived on the stretcher driven by the assigned paramedics I saw him in person for the first time. Porter was unconscious and his face and body were covered in his own blood. I just did my job, I rushed to help him duly along with two other of my medical colleagues and that was how we extracted three bullets and several splinters that had wounded him. When all the mishap had subsided and after completing several surgeries to repair his broken bones, I was finally able to stop a bit to admire his face, which now seemed calm. A strangely alluring feeling made me attend him and watch over his sleep that night and take care of him until finally, two days later, he woke up. Until then I never imagined how important John Porter would become in my life from then on until… "
Watson hesitated again at that moment and stopped. He did not know if he should admit that he himself was trying to limit the great feeling of anxiety caused by Porter's death or it was perhaps due to his strict military training because somehow in the academy they had almost forced him to always restrict his feelings, besides of his internal struggle to always repress his homosexuality from his childhood. Watson felt dejected again when he remembered Porter, he hated feeling that depression, he did not want that to deepen more and more with the passing of the days and to make life heavier each time. And then he decided to erase the text that he had just written. He left his blog blank again. Maybe some other day he would finally decide to write something that he had nothing to do with John Porter.
The next day, after waking up again from his nightmares, Watson left his house, perhaps in search of a job, even though his leg was disabled, he might as well find a job, even if it was small and modest.
On the way through the park a voice suddenly called out to him.
"Hey, John, John Watson," said the man. Watson turned around when he heard it and realized that it was an old acquaintance of his. Although the man's appearance had changed a little since he had last seen him a few years ago, John Watson never forgot the people he dealt with.
"Stamford, Mike Stamford, we studied at St. Barts together," said the man as he extended his hand to greet the blond John.
"Yes, Mike, excuse me, hello," John Watson responded cordially, though without much eagerness, not because he wanted to be rude, but because depression had undoubtedly made him more sparing than usual.
"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" Mike commented. Believe it or not, at that moment a series of withering memories crossed John Watson's mind, where, of course, John Porter was present. Sometimes he really couldn't quite hide his despondency at it.
"Err…yes I got shot” Watson confessed at last. It had all been caused in the inhospitable Middle East, a few weeks ago.
After talking with his old companion for a while, in which Watson made an enormous effort to appear normal, finally the blond told him about his modest military pension, which could possibly no longer allow him to continue living in London for long. At that moment Stamford suggested sharing a flat with someone who had just told him about the idea of finding a partner with whom to share rent expenses, and although Watson was totally incredulous and pessimistic about the idea, he did not imagine that that same day a couple hours later he would be meeting who would be his new rental partner, Sherlock Holmes, in a cold and unusual presentation.
“Mike, can I borrow your phone? Mike. There’s not signal on mine” Sherlock inquired, who had barely given Watson a brief glance, who had just entered that laboratory with Mike.
"Oh, sorry, it’s in my coat,” Stamford apologized to Sherlock.
"Here, use mine,” Watson suggested suddenly.
"Oh, thank you," Sherlock replied, turning to see him at last.
"Oh, he's an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike Stamford said.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked suddenly, sidestepping again, as he used Watson's phone. John was completely intrigued by his sudden inference.
After starting a strange little mutual agreement about sharing a nice flat in central London together and Sherlock explaining how he had managed to guess about their stay in Afghanistan and inferring that Watson was a military medic recently attending psychological therapy, Sherlock coldly agreed, characteristic of him, that they meet the next day in the afternoon.
At that moment Watson could not help but chuckle a little wryly, it seemed to him that Sherlock was being too conceited and it was true that he was really surprised that he had managed to guess his condition in such a correct way only by a superficial deduction, but he was not very willing to endure so much arrogance.
"Is that it? We’ve just met and we’re going to go and look at a flat? We don't know a thing about each other. I don't where we’re meeting and I don’t even know your name," Watson said seriously and confused, and a little exasperated.
"I know enough, I know you're an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided, and returned home from Afghanistan now pensioner due the injury of your invalid leg..." Sherlock turned to give a series of explanations, all completely accurate. Then he dared to leave the laboratory but first let him know his name.
"The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."
Sherlock gave him a whole series of explanations again, all of them totally correct. He then dared to leave the laboratory but not before letting him know his name and the address.
"Sherlock Holmes, the address is 221B Baker Street."
That would be the start of a new life with this unusual new partner, that was nonetheless quite interesting for Watson.
……
FLASH BACK ON
Afghanistan, May 15, 2010
British base at Lashkar Gah
It was early in the morning and, although the pain was still terrifyingly hellish, Porter felt that little by little it was diminishing. But besides that, he knew he felt a little more excited. Half a week ago he had arrived at that makeshift hospital, misleading Zahir Sharq and his men for a while. That should worry him, because surely as soon as he could escape from there, they would return to look for him or worse still they would attack the camp where he was now recovering. But strangely he did not feel too worried, perhaps it was due to the presence of his new friend Dr. Watson, as he was under his care and attention. Porter really felt comforted to have someone as cool as he was to assist him. Seeing and talking to Dr. John Watson somehow encouraged him, made him forget a little about his cold status as a sergeant in the highest British forces, a tough and determined guy and strongly trained to kill any of his enemies without hesitation. Dr. John Watson was the opposite of him, a quiet, passive, diligent and even sweet guy with his duties tending to the wounded. Maybe that was what had attracted him from the first moment.
"Good morning, John," Dr Watson said as he entered the room, smiling a sweet smile for his patient, Sergeant Porter. "How are you feeling today?" The blond asked in an affable tone.
Porter was very glad to see him. At that moment it seemed to him that the melodious voice of Dr. John Watson was sounding sweeter than usual. That really always captivated him.
Watson started to make a few notations on his chart table and then moved closer to Porter's bed.
"I feel better and I think I've improved a little bit more right now just looking at you, Dr. Watson," Porter said with a smile. Seeing Watson had actually made him shy away from his pain a bit.
"It really comforts me to know that, really," Watson mumbled a bit shyly and with a short giggle, trying to concentrate on making the proper notations of him on the record chart.
"Does it comfort you that I mention that it makes me better to see you, John?" Sergeant Porter inquired even more reckless. Watson giggled again, graciously intimidated.
"Ha, no, of course not, it's comforting to see your improvement," admitted the doctor, trying to prevent the sergeant from noticing his embarrassment. Actually, Watson had liked that naughty comment, and it had certainly made him blush. But he wouldn't admit it.
"At least you care about me, I can live happily with that and above all I can live happy with seeing you every time I need to take my medications again," Porter mused smiling. Watson grinned again, but this time he couldn't help but chuckle a little more at it. He was amused by the way Porter addressed him, he did not perceive it as a flirtation, or until that moment he did not want to.
"Haha, well, speaking of medicines, right now it's your turn to take a capsule," said Dr. Watson and took out a small bottle of medicine capsules from one of the pockets of his white coat and then took a glass half full of water and he handed them to Porter to take. At that moment, Porter's bed was tilted so the dark-haired was sitting upright.
Porter smiled and took the capsule, and let Watson give him the glass to drink.
"Thank you very much for taking care of me, Dr. John," Porter spluttered with a seductive smile, while his blue gaze kept fixed on the blond doctor. Watson this time couldn't help but blush again.
FLASH BACK OFF
……
London, February 27, 2011
After a strange day, John Watson arrived at his current flat near dusk. His modest bedroom was always as small as it was cold and empty, almost as small as his soul was now. It had been a truly unusual day, but even that hadn't lifted his spirits, not even one iota. That morning, so suddenly, the question had had to arise that he could not find someone with whom he could share a flat, and that it would even have been ridiculous to consider it, and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, it was done. Appointed with a somewhat cretinous guy to see together the next day the new possible site they would share.
He still couldn't believe how it was that he had accepted such a sudden proposal, with a strange guy that besides being a cretin he did not know at all. But it was done.
Driven by his great curiosity, Watson turned on his laptop in order to do some research on this Sherlock Holmes.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Those words had not stopped echoing in John Watson's mind since that morning. Then he remembered how that first kiss he had had with his late boyfriend, John Porter, had been like.
“It was that day, when our military camp in the Lashkar Gah had the forcible decision to change its location when I suddenly tasted his lips for the first time, in that subtle, desired, longed-for kiss in the middle of the Gerešk terrain of Helmand province. A sweet and exciting kiss, like an oasis in the middle of the desert..."
Watson was once again overcome by anxiety and melancholy. This time he hadn't been able to avoid writing what his heart dictated, and he hadn't been able to avoid saving the writing, even if he had no intention of posting it on his blog. It was being one of those rare moments when he just couldn't keep hiding his intense feelings from him. Yet to think that he would never again have the kisses of his beloved Sergeant John Porter gnawed at his soul terribly.
Watson finished writing that blog entry of his, without a doubt this time he would not delete it, he had decided better to keep it for strictly private use.
"I love you John Watson, I don't want this feeling I feel for you to ever fade, like sand touched by the wind in the desert"
That night Watson did not have the same recurring nightmares, that time his dreams were transformed into placid memories of his beautiful romance with John Porter, perhaps ephemeral, but extremely intense.
To his happiness, Watson placidly dreamed of him all night.